Chapter 1: To his dismay, Michael Afton lives.
Chapter Text
“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.”
King Lear, Shakespeare.
The darkness billows out from Michael like the smoke tearing through Freddy Fazebear’s Pizzeria. The oppressive heat, which he was unable to feel in death, is suddenly overwhelming. He feels his skin melt in oozing, bubbling clumps, mixing with blood rather than rot. The pain sears through him like a hot, white light, and Michael feels himself as if puppeteered, attempting to throw the flames off his melting, trembling form. He does not recognise that the siren shrill, haunted screams vibrating through the room are his own; they are so horrific. Coldness jolts through his burning arms like a painful shock of electricity, and shattered images flash through his broken, pain-numbed mind. He views snippets of his life flash before him like shattered glass, but one overtakes the others, stitching itself together like a cracked mirror. It is the infamous family portrait that William, with his newfound success and subsequent excess of money, commissioned for his family. They are a dysfunctional but overall happy family, but that had been before the bite, before his mother’s and Elizabeth’s disappearances, before his father went cold and beat Michael until he coughed blood and darkness dotted his vision. They are all donning warm smiles except for Michael. He is horribly decomposed, skin bloated and soaked with black rot, lifeless eyes drawn in agony. His disfigured, teenage body puts a finger to his black lips, silencing the screams. Everything goes still, choked in darkness.
Michael awakes to himself sticky and drenched in vomit; coldness pressed to his sweat-drenched forehead. His wide, terrified eyes focus frantically on the white tile floor beneath him, and slowly, awareness and feeling creep into his limbs, which he had thought long forgotten. He tastes bitter smoke on his tongue, and the hot, searing white pain slowly leaves him like a pool of draining blood. Someone calls his name in frantic whispers, like a prayer, but Michael doesn’t feel like God. He registers trembling hands fumbling over his shaking body, his head resting against something soft and warm. His vision clears, his breathing steadies, and he takes in the space before him. It screams 1980s, a whitewashed tiled bathroom with a tiny sink and janky faucet. Michael can not fathom why he knows that the faucet is nearly broken.
Michael chokes down a sob at the person leaning above him. He recognises those bright ginger, permed curls and emerald spun eyes, that lingering smell of rose perfume and soft, quivering voice. Clara Afton. He can not think of this woman as his mother, not anymore, not after she left him alone with William, not after he had to stitch up his purple, rotting skin, not after he smashed her husband’s head in with a plumbing pipe; William’s agonised, broken screams drowned out by his unhinged sobs. Michael lets out another frightened whimper at the memories. Clara shushes him, tears streaking down her blush-powdered cheeks. Michael glances to his right and, to his disbelief, sits Elizabeth and Evan Afton with terrified, worried eyes and trembling lips. Michael feels the bile rise in his throat, and he pushes Clara aside with more force than intended, vomiting onto the hard bathroom tiles. He hears Elizabeth cry out, but his eyes glaze, and he slips in and out of consciousness until something warm and soothing engulfs his aching body.
Water sprays down on Micheal’s naked, vulnerable form as he curls inward, head resting between his knees. Clara is running a soap-lathered cloth down his back, and Evan and Elizabeth are watching, with their worried eyes, from somewhere within the cramped bathroom. Michael does not deserve their pity. He’s desperate to get the warm cloth and warmer hands off his body, trembling violently as fingers run over his scalp. Michael thinks of his rotting skin, a purple so dark it appears black, the loose stitching that is undoubtedly coming undone from the hot water, and the putrid, sweet-smelling rot that must be seeping through old, reopened wounds. He is so disgusted that he tries to claw himself away from those soap-drenched hands, but he’s so weak that all he can manage is a pathetic whimper.
Clara bathes him in haste after that, and Michael only has a moment of reprieve when the water is turned off because those warm hands reappear, searing against his sensitive skin. Clara is only helping Michael into what he vaguely registers as clothing. Still, he hasn’t allowed anyone to touch him in so long that the sensation feels entirely foreign and repulsive, and he only stops hyperventilating once fabric separates Clara’s hands from his bare skin.
Clara and his siblings help him from the bathroom and down a flight of stairs, the frighteningly familiar tick of an old grandfather clock ringing deafeningly in his ears. Michael registers that unbecoming tears are stinging his eyes, and he is even more disgusted with himself when he cannot prevent them from running freely down his cheeks. He sinks deeply into something soft, and warbling voices interspersed with the familiar white noise of an old television ground him. A comforting warmth is pressed into his side, and he allows himself to fall into a creeping, near-catatonic dissociation episode, comforted by the familiar, numb emptiness. He cannot begin to fathom how long he dissociates, but something searingly cold pressing into his hands drags him out of the hollow numbness. His blinks, long and slow, awareness filling his empty eyes, to see Clara pressing his hands into large ice cubes; the sheer bitting cold shocking his system.
“Come back to me, Michael.” She pleads, looking deep into his eyes. Michael flinches away from her devastated but determined stare, and she, despite his reaction, seems relieved. The numbness, although greatly lessened, still seeps into his limbs like heavy lead, and he watches the television with glazed eyes, listening to Clara’s frantic, whispering voice. He can only make out snippets of her conversation, starting when he eventually registers she is on the phone.
“...I don’t know. Micheal had some kind of frightening fit. I heard him screaming, Henry. God…I have never heard anyone scream like that. He kept vomiting and dry heaving onto the bathroom floor. I…I thought he was going to die. Please, I need both of you right now. ”
There is a long pause.
“No, he hasn’t said a word. I bathed him and put him on the couch with his siblings, but…he’s really out of it, Henry. Ok. Yes, just make sure you both come right away.” Clara hangs up the phone, taking a moment to collect herself with a deep inhale, and Michael registers her worried eyes, glancing over his limp form, his siblings cuddling next to him in a sort of desperate death grip. Clara cuts off her sobs, pacing mindlessly in the kitchen while waiting for Henry and William.
Michael, now slightly more conscious and aware, concludes, with the growing feeling in his body, that he is no longer a decomposing corpse, nor that he is burning in Freddy Fazebear’s Pizzera with Henry Emily, drenched in blood from bashing in William’s skull. A small, tired voice in the deep unconscious of his mind supplies that he may have, somehow, travelled back in time. He can’t think of anything more; his brain feels like a heavy pile of mush, but he registers the front door, slamming open with panicked force. Michael snaps out of the dissociation, a panicked tremor shooting through him like a bullet. He shoots up from the couch, throwing his siblings off of him, cowering in the corner of the living room like a frightened animal. Something wild and reckless glistens dangerously in his wide eyes.
Henry Emily is the first to enter the room, locking eyes with his nephew, the man’s speech running through Michael’s mind in an endless cycle. Michael tastes that familiar heaviness of smoke on his tongue, begging silently with his eyes for Henry to do something. Henry looks at Michael with a recognisable, horrified realisation. Michael’s gaze trails behind Henry, eyes locking with William’s. Time seems to slow to a stop, and a blinding, maddening rage replaces the desperate fear. I always come back.
Fire shoots up the walls with an orange, glowing fury, and Michael lunges toward the pizzeria stage, but a large, withered, yellow hand grips the back of his shirt with such venom that it tares like flimsy paper. Michael is thrown across the room, his gasp drowned by manic laughter and roaring flames. Suddenly, Scaptrap is looming over him like a spectre, a desperate gleam in his silver eyes. The withered spring lock suit presses its foot down hard onto the side of Michael’s head, increasing the pressure every time the younger man squirms to free himself. Michael can not physically feel the pain from such violent force as a reanimated corpse, but his skin is so rotted that he worries William will crush his skull in a mess of sharp bone fractures and grey, lumpy brain matter. He refuses to whimper, to cry out to his father in desperation. His similarly shaded eyes scan the room in silent panic, catching the reflections of dancing fire gleaming blindingly off something metallic. Michael guesses it is a plumbing pipe, as part of the building has caved in due to the ravenous flames. He needs to be careful, but William is so preoccupied with crushing Michael’s skull that he overlooks his son’s hand, gripping the searing pipe like a lifeline. Michael slams the pipe with such force that a sickening crack reverberates throughout the room, silently thanking himself for reinforcing his body with scarp animatronic parts. William breathes in surprise, falling to the ground with his leg clutched in hand. He looks up at his son with something like shocked pride, and Michael nearly vomits.
“You!” Micheal hisses at William. His voice is unrecognizable, tainted by fury and venom. He drowns in the smoke, a crazed, desperate look in his eyes, coughing up his words as he screams above the roaring flames, the hot metal of the plumbing pipe curled viciously in his hand.
“Thought you could get away with everything, William? You always come back, but I’m a rotting corpse come to collect your damned soul.” William tries to choke out a reply, but Michael cuts him off with a roaring shout.
“No! This ends, here, with a fucking pipe bashed through your skull! I’m burning in hell, and I’m dragging you down with me, William!” Michael lunges at Scraptrap with a snarl, pipe raised high over his head, and the last look on his father’s obscured face is one of horrified realization. He smashes the pipe over William’s head, over and over and over again. Both of them are screaming, one in agonised terror and the other in righteous fury. Rot, blood and chunks of bone spray over and cut into Michael’s face, and the stitching in his arms and stomach come undone with the force of his swings. He is drenched in crimson by the time his father’s screams taper off into wheezing whimpers, but Michael continues swinging long after his father has ceased twitching. He only stops when he notices the intensified glow of the fire, which signifies that he has caught aflame. Michael thinks he would take a deep, calming breath if alive. Instead, he drops the pipe with a violent clang, falling to his knees with a teary-eyed smile as the flames consume him.
With a violent grab of his wrist, Michael is pulled into a desperate hug, snapping him out of his flashback. He’s no longer burning and choking on smoke but in his living room. Henry has pulled him hard against his chest.
“That’s enough, son.” Henry soothes as Micheal sobs into him. William has backed himself into the wall to avoid Michael’s lunge, a distant, unreadable look in his grey eyes, looking anywhere but at his son.
“Why can’t I just die?” He begs Henry, and understanding flickers over his uncle’s eyes. It makes Michael sob harder, his uncle’s speech turning over in his mind. Michael decides to risk it, so he stutters out part of Henry's speech.
“And to you, my brave volunteer. Who somehow found this job listing not intended for you. Although, there was a way out planned for you -” Uncle Henry interrupts Michael with a pained, grim smile, whispering in his nephew’s ear so that only he can hear him.
“I have a feeling that’s not what you want. I have a feeling that you are right where you want to be.” Michael laughs in relief between his broken sobs, not those of a teenager but a grown, broken man.
While still incredibly tense, the situation seems to fizzle out after that. Clara speaks to Henry with Michael clutched to him like a small, frightened child, and the man trapped in a teenager’s body registers that Henry has offered for Michael to stay with him for the night. Clara hesitantly agrees, her eyes glancing over to William. Michael hardly notices when Henry helps him into his coat - with his shoes - and he shifts his downcast eyes to William Afton in what he hopes is a subtle look. The man is slumped over in a chair pushed away from the kitchen table. Michael expects the man to be composed and uninterested, but he is trembling, his face pushed hard into his hands. A clear liquid slips through his fingers, but his sobs are silent, and Michael refuses to pity William Afton. Michael does not remember ever seeing his father cry during his childhood, as the man was either fake, charismatic charm or when he let the mask slip, silent, foreboding rage. He thinks the bastard deserves it.
A small, warm hand in his has Michael snapping his head away from the distraught image of William to the frightened but concerned face of Evan Afton. Michael hopes he puts on a brave, reassuring face for Evan, and his lack of rage seems to calm the younger boy. Henry soothes Evan, explaining to the boy that his older brother will spend the night with their uncle, and he lets go of Michael’s hand as said man is led gently through the open door. Henry immediately shuts it behind them with such force that it snaps Michael out of his reverie, following Henry to his car. As Henry searches for his car keys, Michael gathers his thoughts with the distant, grounding sound of coins rattling in jean pockets. He has not seen this car in decades, and it brings back memories of long, lazy car rides with the wind rustling through his hair, set alight by the hot summer sun. Michael’s lips tremble as Uncle Henry pats his hand on the passenger seat, encouraging Michael inside. Michael seems to curl in on himself as if wounded as they silently drive away.
Chapter 2: Michael Afton Cannot Rest
Summary:
Michael Afton spends a night with the Emilys, unprepared to meet a familiar, long-dead face. Henry and Micheal are not the only two people who have returned with memories from their past lives.
Notes:
I am so happy to see people engaging with the first chapter! Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos. I should clarify here, and in the summary of my overall fic, that this story is only rated explicit due to violence and gore. My fic will explore romantic relationships between numerous characters, but there won't be anything sexually explicit.
I will set an upload schedule to post every one or two weeks, depending on how long it takes me to write and edit the chapters. I had terrible writer's block for a few days but am ultimately happy with how this chapter turned out.
Also, Charlie's mother has minimal characterization in the novels and games, so I'm nervous about making her a relatively central character in this story. I hope that people will enjoy the character I have crafted regardless!
The content warnings for this chapter are as follows: Past alcohol abuse, references to physical abuse, and fear of physical abuse (I am referring to Henry here, but he never abuses Michael. Michael is associating Henry's drinking with William's abuse and his trauma response is one of fear), mild gore and references to disordered eating, references to self-harm/self-loathing, panic attacks, and dissociation.
Chapter Text
“But the wicked are like the tossing sea, which cannot rest, whose waves cast up mire and mud. ‘There is no peace,’ says my God, ‘for the wicked.’”
Isaiah 57:20-21.
When the gentle rumbling of the car’s engine switches off, Michael places a trembling hand over the quickening, nervous thumping of his heartbeat beneath his chest. When he opens the car door, the fiery orange of an early October sunset warms his skin, and a cool evening wind ruffles through his hair, forcing surreal, dream-like memories of Henry fixing his wind-whipped curls with gentle fingers after windy days at the lake. Michael does not realize he is crying until the salt of his tears stings the teeth-bitten cuts on his lips, and he desperately tries to wipe them away as Henry exits the car. The warmth seeping into his skin has him stuttering out the beginnings of a sob, and Henry rushes over to him, panic contorting his kind eyes.
“I’m alright.” Michael forces out between sobs, a strange sparking of warmth exploding like a blinding, neon firework in his stomach.
“I just…I haven’t felt the warmth of the sun in so long.” The devastation of such an honest admission has Henry gasping, pained. Michael is thankful that Henry allows him a few moments to soak in the sun before ushering him inside with gentle, guiding hands. Painful memories flash, like violent streaks of lightning crackling across a dark sky, behind Michael’s closed eyes, and he has to take a deep, steadying breath when Henry unlocks the front door.
Michael expects the strong, sickeningly sweet smell of whiskey to slap him across the face when Henry opens the door to his house, and he lets slip a weird sort of pained gurgle in its absence. Instead, the house smells of fresh linen and lavender, and Michael feels like a defenceless deer in blinding headlights when his eyes wander over the living room. He takes in the eerily familiar tacky, red plaid wallpaper, the dark wooden furniture, the grey, shag carpet, and the many wooden books shelves. His reddened, stinging eyes linger over the framed family photographs hung proudly on the wall because he remembers their heavy absence when staying with the shell of a man he once called uncle.
Henry was sickly pale skin like a sagging tent pulled over jutting bone and frazzled, thinning hair framing the rings of bruised circles under lifeless eyes. His inevitable erratic, slurred speech and flushed cheeks forced Michael to withdraw from Henry in fear, allowing the older man to fester and rot in his grief. Michael listened to those broken, keening sobs while curled in on himself on Charlie’s bed, shaking in terror at the idea of Henry finding him like Father had inevitably found him in Evan’s bed.
He tries to remember this house for the haven that it was when he hears the liveliness of Charlie’s voice, startled into the present. Michael feels the familiar sting of tears well his eyes when Charlie cautiously wanders over to him from the kitchen, as if worried she will scare off a wild, wounded animal. The image of Charlie before him - her messy hair like spilt ink braided down her back, those same, viridescent eyes sparking with unyielding life, freckles like dark stars stark against the youthful flush over her cheeks - unblurs the deteriorating, fractured memory of her in Michael’s mind. Michael had forgotten her fierce but warm presence, which once lit up the darkness threatening to suffocate his life. Charlie pulls him into a bear-like hug using the familiar strength associated with her father, and Michael wails like the lost child she comforted the night after Evan’s death. He’s blathering out apologies because Charlie has always been able to expose the raw, flayed nerve of pain buried deep within him, soothing it to merely a dull ache.
Charlie hugs Michael tightly until his crying subsides to pained, raspy breaths and another strikingly familiar figure shifts into focus. Wavy hair cascades down the white of her oversized blouse like black smoke and frames the sharp jut of high cheekbones and liquor-brown eyes so calculated they cleave through the tall, defensive tangle of trees hiding intent. Aunt Vivian has always been a very intimidating, alluring woman, and she effortlessly saw through William, honing a hatred so deep for him that Michael felt a bit guilty for having been the one to smash his skull in. Michael reflects that his aunt always held an undeserved kindness for him, going so far as to take him in at seventeen when both his Father and Henry disappeared. He startles when he meets his aunt’s eyes because her shockingly vulnerable expression is one of understanding, and the otherwise unexplainable grief-stricken hardness of her features reveals her.
Vivian hands Michael a glass of water and retreats, almost frightened, back into the kitchen. Before he can call out to her, Sammy pulls Michael into another constricting bear hug, his many questions fizzling out in his throat. Sammy and Charlie somehow manage to pull him into one of Henry’s famous bear hugs simultaneously, and Michael cannot help the weak but genuine smile that lifts the corners of his mouth. That strange, almost repulsive spark once again threatens an explosion of bright colour and warmth in his chest, and the rapid fire of his heartbeat, while foreign, is strangely grounding. When the hug inevitably ends, Michael searches hopefully, perhaps selfishly, for that haunted look of understanding to flicker over Sammy and Charlie’s lively faces. The realization never dawns, and Michael examines them both like a curious fox as they, in turn, watch him strangely as he chokes down his glass of water.
His mind flashes to the sharp wires of Ennard embedded deep in his throat, of the sickly sweet soda he used to drink seeping into the haphazard stitching lining the large gashes in his jaw left purposefully loose for tearing in self-loathing. Michael craves his soda and energy drinks; the excess sugar and aspartame allowing him to keep down fluids in a way water could not.
“Are you ok, Mikey? You look like you are going to be sick.” Charlie prods gently, and Michael swallows a bitter bubbling of laughter because no one has called him Mikey in so long.
“I’m ok.” The raspy wheeze in Michael’s voice reveals otherwise, and Charlie takes the glass of water from him before he vomits.
“Please don’t force yourself, Mikey. You need to drink it slowly,” Charlie pleads.
“What would make you feel a bit better right now?” Sammy interjects kindly. Michael thinks back to his lacklustre, often destructive coping mechanisms, but, like finding gold amongst dull chunks of rock, remembers falling asleep in front of the television to Immortal and the Restless all those years ago when working for Circus Baby’s Rentals.
“A movie, maybe. I sometimes fall asleep watching TV. It’s calming.” Michael says as Sammy and Charlie run over to the glass case of VHS tapes next to the TV and advanced stereo system setup. He follows them, curiosity colouring his grey eyes as he examines the nostalgic technology. The silver Sony logo jumps out at Michael, shining beneath the bright lights in the living room. The TV and stereo systems are large and blocky. Michael reflects that the sleek technology, separated by dark wooden panels, looks expensive compared to what he remembers about early 1980s technology. Charlie comes rushing over with a boxed VHS tape flashing familiar, bright yellow letters stark against a dark background of sombre, icy blues and faded blacks. Michael has not seen the original Star Wars trilogy since it first came out in theaters in the late seventies and early eighties. He feels like the young and hopeful, soon-to-be-broken teen sipping on his strawberry milkshake after watching The Empire Strikes Back at Fredbear’s Family dinner, laughing breathlessly beneath the bright stars on a cool night in May with Charlie, Sammy and Elizabeth by his side. He snaps back to the present at Charlie’s excited voice.
“The Return of the Jedi is coming out in just over a week, so I figured we could watch The Empire Strikes back to prepare! You already know I’m dragging you to see the last film in theaters when it comes out!” Michael laughs warmly at Charlie’s enthusiasm, fighting back painful memories of Charlie and Sammy dragging Michael to see said movie opening night just four days after Evan’s death. He feels terribly guilty for how much fun he’d had that night under the circumstances, relieved to be free of Father’s scathing eyes and Mother’s keening cries.
“Alright,” Michael laughs, burying deep those painful memories as Charlie pulls him onto the ugly plaid couches that scream the 1970s. Sammy sits on the other side of Michael, effectively trapping him between the Emily twins as Henry somehow remembers to work 1980s technology with ease. The TV crackles to life, the lights switch off, and the vibrant colours flashing from the screen cast flickering shadows over the room. The familiar form of Aunt Vivian fills Michael’s vision for a moment to lean down and kiss Sammy and then Charlie on the forehead with such desperate tenderness that Michael is afraid he might burst into tears. For the only other time that night, she meets her nephew’s eyes in a silent, determined promise and whispers so that Henry cannot hear her.
“I will talk to you in the morning, Mike.” She says before wishing everyone a pleasant but strained goodnight, her tired form retreating up the stairs. Charlie and Sammy cast quizzical glances before turning back to the TV, and Michael almost dozes off more times than he’d like to admit before Henry pauses the tape and flicks on the lights. Michael blinks rapidly, groaning at the sudden blinding brightness.
“It’s very late, you three,” Henry says, fondness creeping past the stern facade of his voice.
“You’re right, Dad.” Sammy agrees, yawning and stretching like a tired cat.
“What about Mikey, Dad?” Charlie and Sammy ask simultaneously, and Michael almost bursts out laughing at the bewildered look the twins send one another at their in-synch speech.
“I got the couch,” Michael says, patting his hands on the cushions.
“Well, make sure Dad gets you pillows! And that comfy afghan grandma made!” Charlie says, rising from the couch, something daring in her eyes when she looks between her brother and the stairs.
“Your mother is sleeping!” Henry cuts in, panicked, before Charlie and Sammy can race up the stairs in a mess of colliding limbs and whispered swear words. Charlie goes bright red, a guilty look falling over her face.
“Sorry, Dad.” She whispers as Sammy scoffs a laugh at her. He’s halfway up the stairs when he turns around to tease her.
“Great idea that totally wouldn't have gotten us killed.” Sammy jokes, and Charlie pushes past him playfully, a smile playing on her lips despite her brother’s teasing. They both wish Michael a good night before disappearing up the stairs and into the darkness of the hallway. Henry hands Michael some pillows and that so-called comfy afghan, which Michael finds pleasant and soft against his skin instead of repulsive. A strange look in his uncle’s eyes tells Michael he wants to say something, but Henry remains silent. Michael speaks for him above the rushing of water through pipes from the bathroom tap upstairs.
“We should talk. About today. About everything.” Michael says, a deep sadness ageing his otherwise youthful voice. The rushing water stops abruptly, and Charlie peaks her head around the corner at the top of the stairs, something sad clouding her usually bright eyes as she examines Michael.
“Are you coming up to sleep, Dad?” It has not slipped Michael’s notice that Henry unconsciously flinches every time Charlie or Sammy calls him dad, nor does his starry-eyed stare. It’s as if he can’t quite believe that any of this is real.
“Just gotta talk with Mike for a bit, pumpkin. Then I promise that I will get some sleep.”
“Ok,” Charlie responds sadly. She locks eyes with Michael so intensely that it’s as if she has pierced into his soul, as if she can see him as the exhausted, rotted corpse just barely clinging to life.
“Take care of him, Dad.” She disappears from the top of the stairs in a blur, and Michael lets out a shocked breath. Her reaction confirms how visible Michael’s trauma has become, and that terrifies him. Michael and Henry have to simply sit in shock for a few moments before the older man leads them into the kitchen, apologizing before switching on the light. The house is painfully quiet now that everyone besides him and Henry is settling into sleep. The older man leans deeply onto the kitchen counter, and the overhanging lights reflect blindingly off his chunky glasses, obscuring his eyes. The sudden lack of eye contact allows Michael to speak.
“I don’t understand; you remembered the speech. You have to tell me what happened to you.” Henry takes a deep, shaking breath, hands white-knuckled against the dark granite of the counter and begins his explanation.
“I died, I think. Then I woke up in my house and bed, and I thought it was all a horrible dream. I think I woke up to something stranger when I realized Vivian was beside me in bed. I panicked; I locked myself in the bathroom and had a panic attack so bad that I thought I was dying again. Charlie found me like that. I guess I spiralled pretty bad when I saw her and heard her voice for the first time in over thirty years. I just held her, Mike. I pulled myself together quickly after that, but Vivian was a wreck. She was sitting on the bed, just staring blankly, and only Sammy could bring her back. I suspected…but she seemed just as confused as Charlie and Sammy about my panic attack.
Charlie asked if I was okay to go to work, and, oh god, it seemed to hit me that this might not be a dream. I lied when I said I’d pulled myself back together because I seemed to blink, long and slow, and opened my eyes to see the front of the dinner. I can’t even describe what it felt like seeing William, but my blood seemed to boil in my veins; I was so angry. I soon didn’t know how to feel. He was so different, Mike. The William I knew always seemed to be chasing something to fill the emptiness, to stifle his simmering rage. This William was so full of emotion. He knew immediately that I was unwell, and, damn him, he knew exactly how to help me. William sequestered me in our shared office for the day and suggested I work on fixing some of the new blueprints. The bastard even knew to dim one set of lights because everything was too damn bright in that building. I kept thinking I was alone in this strange hell as I worked. Then, Clara called. Your behaviour was so erratic that I immediately knew I was no longer alone. You even quoted my own speech to me, son.”
Michael is choking back tears when Henry has finished speaking, and this man, his uncle, pulls him into a warm hug. Henry is whispering frantic apologies into his nephew’s hair, and Michael can not stop wretched sobs from tearing up his throat. Michael buries his face into Henry’s shirt, and he smells of pine and firewood, bringing back flashes of laughter and warm smiles before a bright campfire. They simply hold one another, and for once, Michael does not feel disgusted at someone touching his skin.
“If this is all real,” Michael eventually whispers, “we can save everyone. Charlie, Evan, Elizabeth, Clara, Jeremy; I can save all of them.” Henry stiffens, catching Michael’s eyes in a stern look.
“Don’t put such a heavy burden solely on your shoulders, son. You’ll break beneath its weight, and I can’t…I can’t lose you, Mike. Let me help you.” Scathing remarks die in Michael’s throat, but he’d been the one to free Evan and Gabriel and Jeremy and Susie and Fritz; he’d been the one to kill Father. He’d died and then, to his bitter amusement, lived to pay for his father’s sins, and he would, without hesitation, do it all over again, ensuring an end to all suffering besides his own. Michael chokes out a lie to appease Henry.
“I promise that I won’t take on all of this alone. You’ve gotta take care of yourself before you can care for others, right?” Michael’s words seem to appease Henry because his stern look is softening, and he’s chuckling gently at the loud yawn overtaking his nephew's face.
“You need sleep,” Henry says, with a hand running through Michael’s curls. Michael can manage to admit to himself that he’s exhausted, and he leaves the kitchen and goes toward the living room couch, with Henry following close behind.
“Do you want me to stay?” Henry asks, and Michael is suddenly so tired that all he can manage is to murmur what he thinks is a “no thanks” before sinking deep into the couch and the darkness of sleep.
Chapter 3: There are voices in Michael Afton’s head.
Summary:
A mysterious voice insists on narrating Michael's innermost thoughts in an oft-visited nightmare. When Michael awakens, he discovers who has also travelled to the past with him and Henry. The voice in Michael's nightmare is not the only one that invades his mind, and a new power upends his fracturing sense of control.
Notes:
This chapter took so long to write (and is also much longer than the others so far)! I'm happy with it, but it might need some editing, so please forgive me! It's time to introduce Aunt Vivian properly, and we will get a better sense of her and Michael's past in the following few chapters. I'm introducing something else that will be a massive part of this story, and if you've read the tags of this fic, you will know what it is when it comes up!
Content warnings are as follows: Death, gore, blood, physical abuse of a child, self-loathing and self-blame for abuse, discussions of child abuse, descriptions of corpses and mutilation, eating disorders and food repulsion, dissociation and flashbacks, and nightmares.
Please read the trigger warnings and take care of yourself! The chapter starts off with a nightmare that is pretty dark.
Chapter Text
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!”
Evan is sobbing on the floor near the cheerful Fredbear animatronic, shining tears dripping onto the white and black checkered floor. There is a cacophony of mocking laughter, looming shadows, and the hum of the party guests, who are still enjoying their dinner, distant and faint. Michael can feel himself smile wide and dangerous, prereferral vision blocked by that ever-present Foxy mask, as he snickers with his faceless friends, their names forgotten to him with time. They crowd in on Evan like masked, evil spirits, and Michael realizes in horror that he is picking up Evan by his arms, yelling playfully for his friends to help lift the sobbing, kicking, begging child up to Fredbear. He thinks he hears himself saying that Evan wants to kiss the source of his nightmares, and the boy screams desperately for Michael to put him down. Then, something new interrupts this commonly revisited nightmare.
You were always screaming out for help through your violence. The voice is a southern drawl, a hiss of a gator in the stifling heat. Static rings painfully in Michael’s ears, distorting the scene of him and his friends lifting Evan up and into Fredbear’s mouth like watching a broken television screen.
Evan was once William’s favourite. Even when Evan drowned deep in neglect, you felt he was better than you. Your anger left others with ugly bruises and broken bones while he was gentle and kind. Jealousy and shame left you with a searing hum of rage you reflect was too similar to your Father. Michael can not stop the nearly maniacal laughter that escapes his cracked lips as he shoves his brother forcefully into Fredbear’s mouth, adrenaline and power coursing through his veins. Then, the metal in Fredbear’s head creaks, slamming shut on Evan’s head with a sickening crack. Warm crimson sprays violently all over the front of Michael, Fredbear’s mouth, and onto the floor, collecting in a dark puddle. He doesn’t startle until the warmth hits his face. Michael steps away in numbing shock, watching with horror as blood and torn, mutilated flesh latch onto Fredbear’s metal teeth.
It was only meant to be a prank. Another outlet for your endless, tameless anger. The realization of what you had done only hit when Henry rushed into the room, choking out a scream. The static blinds him, the scene skipping like the broken picture on that television, and all Michael can seem to do is watch in fascinated horror. The scene cuts to Willam, with his trembling, careful hands pulling his youngest son from the jaws of Fredbear, kitchen towels wrapping uselessly around Evan’s head, applying steady pressure until the paramedics arrive. Michael’s friends have vanished, leaving him to face the consequences of his actions alone. In a whirl of yelling, endless voices and rumbling static, Michael is ushered into the back of Henry’s car along with Elizabeth.
Neither Uncle Henry nor Elizabeth could bear to look at you, so the ride was suffocatingly silent. Henry spared both of you from seeing the gruesome state of Evan in the hospital and took you home instead. He stayed with you until the night grew cold and dark, but he never once looked you in the eyes, even when helping you out of your blood-soaked tanktop. William rushes through the door in a fury so great he appears calm and collected. There is a cold glint in his eyes as he whispers to Henry by the front door, hands white-knuckled on the handle, convincing Henry to leave. He snaps at Elizabeth in a commanding, dangerous tone for her to stay in her room for the rest of the night, and she quickly bounds up the stairs, refusing to meet Michael’s pleading glance. William waits until he hears the angry slamming of her door before backing Michael into the dark kitchen with long, predatory strides. Michael can not choke back his sobs when William punches him violently in the face, his trembling body pressed hard into the counter as the mugs behind him rattle with the sheer violence behind William’s assault. He beat you until you couldn't even manage to scream, to whimper. He was the only one who met your eyes that night, ensuring you could not escape his cold fury. You didn’t deserve such violence despite your steadfast justification. You didn’t deserve any of it.
Michael awakens with silent sobs, curling himself deep into the couch as he hyperventilates. His hands move to cover his ears as crackling static rings deafeningly, and he feels the heat of steady, firm hands hovering over his shoulders. A grounding voice instructs him in square breathing, and Michael sucks in greedily for air until the static becomes a low, near non-existent hum at the back of his mind. His breathing calms to deep but slow inhales and subsequent shaking, full-bodied exhales on guided counts of four. Aunt Vivian is kneeling next to the couch, her hands intertwined with Michael’s as they synch their breathing. They cling desperately to one another until the golden summer sun peaks through the partly drawn curtains, until sweat-soaked, shaking hands unlatch from Aunt Vivian as if burned. Time seems to move like sticky, thick, dripping honey and then snaps back to normal at the ice-cold glass of water pressed into Michael’s hands.
As Michael drinks his glass of water with tremor-wracked hands, he notices Aunt Vivian's consideration of him with warm, red-rimmed eyes and a small, sad smile. The silence stretches uncomfortably once Michael carefully places his glass on the coffee table, words stuck deep in his throat, their weight crushing.
“I slept on the couch,” Aunt Vivian begins, breaking the tense silence. “I remember your nightmares, so I didn’t want you to wake up alone.” Michael startles at his aunt’s admission, revealing her.
“Please tell me you remember.” Michael pleads, desperate eyes searching for any sign of recognition.
“God, Mike. I wasn't sure if you had also woken up to this fever dream or if I was stuck alone in some sort of cruel afterlife.” Aunt Vivian huffs out a bitter laugh, leaning almost boneless against the coffee table; she is so relieved. Michael simultaneously wants to curse and thank whatever force or being put both of them here because he might have gone mad if only he and Henry were stuck together in this mess. His feelings on Henry are far too complicated to unpack currently. Still, he knows that Aunt Vivian has always been the metaphorical life raft keeping him from drowning beneath a vast, dark ocean of crushing waves.
“I have a theory that we’ve time-travelled.” Michael blurts out, face flushing in embarrassment. Aunt Vivian barks out a full-bodied laugh, a fond smile only he or Sammy could impart, brightening her cold, grief-stricken face.
“Nothing is impossible after all we’ve been through, Mike.” She assures, as one of her hands reaching out to touch him pulls away as if burned.
“Forgive me. I know that you dislike being touched.” Michael shifts self-consciously, a conditioned apology forming on his lips. A deep sadness overtakes Vivian, and she speaks softly before Michael can choke out his words.
“You don’t have to apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong, Mike, but I understand why you feel the need to. Do you want to talk about your nightmare?” Aunt Vivian grows serious, shifting the conversation in response to Michael’s obvious discomfort. Michael is reminded of long, warm nights when he would sit, propped languidly on the cramped kitchen counter and sipping tepidly at his ice-cold ginger ale, the buzz of the cicadas hidden within the row of trees in his Aunt’s backyard near deafening, revelling in the safety of being able to admit the contents of his nightmares without judgement. He refuses to waste this rare opportunity for safety and much-needed comfort.
“I…” Michael begins, voice devastatingly quiet, and Aunt Vivian nods her head in encouragement at the hesitancy hardening her nephew’s eyes.
“I was dreaming about the day Evan died.” Michael cannot look at Aunt Vivian despite having discussed this nightmare before, grey eyes overcast with guilt, the tremor ever constant in his hands.
“You and Henry were the only thing that kept me going that night. Elizabeth and I were never the same afterwards; she hated me. William…William beat me constantly after Evan died, and I didn’t tell you because I thought I deserved it.” The sheer weight of Michael’s admission causes him to squirm beneath the tension-coiled silence, but he knows that Aunt Vivian will never snap at him. He forces himself to meet his aunt’s eyes, startled at the sheen of tears running down her face.
“I’d always assumed…but that does not matter now. I need you to know that you did not deserve to be abused, Mike. You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m really - I failed you, Michael. I left and didn’t get you out of that fucking house.” Michael wants to argue against her because William had always been a charming, manipulative bastard hell-bent on taking people apart and putting them back together as he pleased, but heavy footsteps descending the stairs silence them both. Aunt Vivian locks eyes with Michael in cold terror when Henry, staring at them in shocked confusion, suspicion swirling darkly in his emerald eyes, walks into the living room hand in hand with Charlie.
“Woah, are you guys ok?” Charlie asks, concern marring her usually carefree voice.
“I came downstairs to grab a glass of water and heard Mike whimpering in his sleep. He wanted to talk with me about his nightmare.” Aunt Vivian lies smoothly, rising from the floor as she nervously smoothes down her wrinkled nightgown with trembling hands. Michael catches the bitting glare Aunt Vivian throws at Henry when his eyes flicker over to Charlie briefly, and she excuses herself to make breakfast before Michael thinks she might end up strangling Henry.
“Mom suggested you spend the day with us, Mikey,” Charlie blurts out excitedly while simultaneously looking him over for signs of distress. Michael thinks back to the endless excuses he made appealing to William and his ever-shortening temper to spend his weekends with the Emily’s. Michael silently thanks Aunt Vivian because he knows he is not ready to face his siblings, let alone William and Clara.
“I’d like that,” Michael responds warmly, that strange, bright smile threatening to grow so wide that it would undoubtedly strain the muscles in his face. That has Charlie excitedly rambling off the many things they could do until Aunt Vivian yells above a sizzling pan that breakfast is nearly finished, the rich, salty smell of bacon and eggs wafting beckoningly into the living room.
“I’m going to call Clara and William,” Henry informs, eyes narrowing when Aunt Vivian acknowledges him with a rather dismissive wave of her hand as Michael and Charlie settle at the kitchen table. More frantic and rather incensed footsteps tumble down the stairs, and Sammy, with his black hair sticking up at odd angles from his head, glares at Charlie.
“You didn’t wake me up?” Sammy groans, and Michael laughs softly at the strange domesticity of the scene unfolding before him. The younger boy brightens when he notices Michael.
“With that hairdo?” Charlie teases, and Sammy runs over to look at his reflection in the shining glass of the kitchen china cabinet. He yelps, licking his hands, running them frantically over his hair, hoping it flattens. Charlie fakes a gag, which causes Michael to chuckle light-heartedly once more. Aunt Vivian watches her son with wistful amusement as she begins to place their food on the table, somehow remembering how everyone likes their eggs. Michael feels a pang of guilt at never even considering helping with breakfast.
“Hon, stop fussing and come eat your breakfast.” Aunt Vivian laughs as Sammy deflates at the state of his hair. He wanders defeatedly over to the kitchen table, grumbling into his eggs. Vivian’s joy fizzles out and dies when Henry re-enters the kitchen, a strange look of surprise on his face.
‘What did they say?” Aunt Vivian demands a bit too harshly, causing an ever-intuitive Charlie to shrink in her seat at the newfound tension between her parents.
“They asked a lot after Michael but were fine with having him spend the day with us.” Michael’s eyes widen, his breath caught in his throat. Having William worry for him is so alien that he refuses to believe it out of self-preservation. He notes that Aunt Vivian’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and she scoffs bitterly.
“Did they, now.” Henry’s eyebrows shoot so far up his forehead that they nearly end up in his hair because that particular reaction finally has a horrified realization contort his face in an expression of pure terror. He sinks into his seat in shock, and Michael’s childish amusement is short-lived when a plate of food is set in front of him, the heady smell of bacon grease nearly causing him to gag. His mind flashes back to the mind-numbing pain of having Ennard shred his throat, blood and rot drooling from his mouth as his jaw, with a resounding crack, splits open as sharp wires eject violently from his body. Some of those wires had been forever stuck, matted between rotting tissue deep in his throat, the revulsion of food slotting between that hard metal often causing him to vomit it back up. Michael feels tears sting his eyes, frustration boiling his blood at the worried looks falling over the Emily’s faces, casting long, tired shadows.
“I can’t-” Michael chokes out, his hands running haphazardly over his neck in search of the telltale bumps hiding jutting wires.
“Son, It’s alright. Don’t force yourself to eat if you can’t.” Henry soothes before Aunt Vivian can get a word in. Henry looks like he wants to say more, but Charlie cuts him off, a warm hand on Michael’s back.
“Do you want to change the subject?” She asks, ever intuitive. Michael nods, trembling hands settling in his lap when he cannot find any evidence of the wires.
“What -What are we going to do today?” Michael stutters, rapid breathing calming as Charlie rubs soft circles on his back.
“Well, Dad and I were talking about going to the mall. I hope that’s not too overwhelming because I want to get Evan his birthday gift while we’re there, and I figured you’d want to as well.” Michael startles, eyes bulging.
“I-What day is it?” Michael pleads, a wheezing breath caught in his throat.
“May 18, 1983,” Henry replies, a grim expression darkening his face. Charlie looks at him in scared confusion as Michael spirals, eyes glazed and far away because Evan’s birthday is in three days. Michael had celebrated Evan’s birthday every year since his death, and an excruciating memory worms its way, like a destructive parasite, to the front of his mind.
Under cover of darkness, dust-coated blinds shuttered to shield his rotting body from prying, curious eyes, Michael lights and meticulously counts the number of candles needed to represent what would have been Evan’s current age. The orange, lively glow flickers to reveal the decorative chocolate cake he’s made, his hoarse voice ghosting through the stale air in a sacrilege prayer. He inevitably blew out the candles and resigned himself to sobbing alone in the darkness.
Someone calls his name from within that darkness, and a creeping light illuminates his broken form. Charlie calls for Michael and he wishes William had not taken this vibrant, fiery light from his grim life. Michael comes back to himself with a deep, shaking breath and a violent blinking of his eyes, and the worried looks piercing him from around the table force an explanation.
“The nightmares -” He chokes out, tongue heavy like lead in his dry mouth.
“Is that why you’ve been acting so differently?” Charlie asks, realization dawning on her worry-stricken face. Michael forces his voice, achingly curious.
“What do you mean?”
“It was like a switch flipped. You went from kind and outgoing to angry and isolated. You were furious with Uncle Will and couldn’t bear to look at Evan or Elizabeth. I didn’t know that you were having nightmares. You wouldn’t talk to anyone. I knew that you would break and that everything would somehow be different, and you are so different, Mikey.” All Michael can register from Charlie’s revelation are memories of his self-loathing anger. The cause of that anger looms like a dark spectre of death in his mind, a swinging scythe to represent the burning questions hacking through his neck. Michael can see the horrified look cross over Aunt Vivian’s face, and they lock eyes in solemn understanding.
“My nightmares,” Michael begins, unsure how to weave his necessary web of lies without getting caught, “are about all of you. They happen here, in Hurricane, in these very houses, and it all feels so real and familiar. But everything is flipped on its head. William does horrible, unspeakable things, and I do the same in return. I kill Evan, and then everything spirals so hopelessly out of control that I can’t even recognize myself once the nightmare is over. I-”
“Michael, you know that you did not do those things,” Charlie says softly, taking Michael’s hands in hers.
“I’m sorry that the nightmares feel so real, but please, Mikey, don’t believe everything is your fault.” Michael feels an angry scream bubble up in his throat, scalding, but forces it back down at the shatteringly gentle expression on Charlie’s face. He wants so desperately to believe that he’s not at fault for what William became that it rushes through his blood and buzzes under his skin like the rush of an often abused nicotine high. When Michael looks at the receptive, forgiving look softening Charlie’s face, he wonders if he can begin to forgive himself.
“I’m going to be alright,” Michael says suddenly, something long forgotten sparking like fire in his eyes. He doesn’t feel that he has to say anymore, and when Henry follows Sammy and Charlie up the stairs after deciding on their mall trip, Aunt Vivian stops him with a desperate, frightened look. They are so close that Michael can smell her lavender perfume's calming, familiar scent, and the expected, choking smell of cigarette smoke is absent.
“You were never responsible for that man,” Vivian speaks as if the truth of her words is etched, forever stuck, in ancient stone. Static rings in Michael’s ears, high-pitched and deafening, and something foreign is pounding against his skull, invading his thoughts. The smell of lavender is so strong that it chokes him, and within the static, an eerily familiar voice pierces through the jumbled mess of thoughts inside his head.
Mike?
Aunt Vivian’s voice is so clear inside his mind that he has to swallow down a scream and a distant, southern drawl whispers, like a voice caught in the wind, for him to push outward. Michael panics when Aunt Vivian whips her head to the side as if slapped violently, leaning boneless onto the kitchen counter. Shining tears are streaming down her face, and she whispers frantic apologies, trembling.
“I’m so sorry, Michael, but – and I know this sounds crazy - I’ve been hearing all of your thoughts since you came back. I wanted to make you stop thinking those horrible things about yourself, so I tried to get inside your mind. Oh God, did I, Mike? Did I get into your mind? You look like your whole world has just been upended.” Vivian is speaking so frantically that Michael can hardly fathom the weight of her admission. He clings to her voice, which was so clear and powerful in his mind.
“You spoke in my head, and there was this strong smell of lavender, and I had to get you out,” Michael says all in one breath.
“You heard me?” Aunt Vivian looks at him in astonishment, and Michael can only nod in agreement, distrustful of the sob stuck in his throat.
“Mikey! Come up and get ready! We’re tired of waiting!” Charlie yells playfully for him, and Michael knows that exploring this strange development must be put on hold for his own sanity. A faint voice in the back of Michael’s mind hisses out the word telepathy, and he has to compartmentalize his revelation for later as he ascends the stairs.
Go, we’ll figure this out later.
Michael’s fingers go white-knuckled on the hand railing, and he’s leaning into the wall to avoid falling back down the stairs.
“You did it again.” Michael grits out, pained.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to stop it.” Aunt Vivian pales as she follows Michael up the stairs, both of them momentarily blinded by the golden beams of sunlight piercing through the cracks in the half-opened blinds. Michael does feel as if his whole world has been upended, and the once painful, deafening static turns to electric power, raising the hair over his skin. He feels the gaze of curious eyes reeling just out of sight like the lure on a fishing line and wonders what he has forgotten.
Chapter 4: What do you see in the mirror, Michael?
Summary:
Michael and the Emily's prepare for their mall trip. Michael hates asking for help and obsesses over the stranger staring back at him in the mirror.
Notes:
I cannot believe it has been over two months since I last updated. I've been struggling with some worsening chronic health issues, so I was far too sick to write anything decent for a long time. I'm doing much better currently! I'm also freaking out because I have over 1000 views and over 80 kudos! I've also been reading the comments on my last chapter, and they motivated me to write despite being so sick! So, I'm incredibly grateful to everyone who is reading and commenting! I will continue this fic and have the following two chapters written! They are so long because the FNAF brain rot will not leave me (I may have also gone overboard researching 1980s Utah).
These following few chapters are a calm before the storm, you could say, and mostly explore the dynamics between Michael and the Emily's. This is where my fixation on character studies really shows. This current chapter is also shorter and more of a transitional chapter with some character study sprinkled in. There are some trigger warnings to be safe!
The trigger warnings for this chapter are as follows:
Past alcohol abuse/alcoholism, including alcohol withdrawal, co-dependent relationships, dissociation, references to blood and death, self-loathing, obsession over self-image, and referenced, accidental mind reading.
Chapter Text
“Yes, truly, for look you, the sins of the father are to
be laid upon the children. [...] Therefore be o' good
cheer, for truly I think you are damned.”
Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice.
Golden sunlight casts a glowing ring around Henry, cutting into the darkness like whistling, loosed arrows. That familiar, insistent gaze compels Michael to take an outstretched hand, which offers as much aid as it harms. Henry smiles triumphantly, a familiar, mad gleam in his eyes as Michael’s large, looming shadow snuffs out the halo like a lone candle in an endless dark. Michael turns his head to see Vivian’s appraising but forlorn stare, her expression on the knife’s edge of realization. She clears her throat in obvious discomfort, and the dangerous gleam in Henry’s eyes dulls. The vice grip on Michael’s hand loosens.
“I’m going to shower,” Vivian says, an infuriatingly mundane declaration breaking the desperate tension. She moves past Michael, breaking the scorching beam of sunlight so that it shatters like glass in his tangled hair, and sends a worried glance in his direction before disappearing into the washroom. Henry breathes a sigh of relief, already dressed in his signature plaid and smelling of mint soap and strong hair gel. That signature warm smile brightens his previously grim face. The image of Henry dressed, showered, and ready for the day makes Michael feel useless in his wrinkled night clothes. Michael realizes that he forgot to bring extra clothing, and he’s sure as hell not going to the mall dressed in pyjamas, so he hopes that either Henry or Vivian can resolve his current stressor without returning to the Afton household. The idea of facing the Aftons so soon has him reeling.
“I can’t believe I forgot to bring extra clothes with me! I do not want to go back to that house just to change.” Michael says, panicked.
“Mike, it’s ok! I always made sure to have an extra pair of clothing for you at my house, and If my memory serves me correctly, I know where I put them,” Henry says. Henry enters his bedroom, and Michael follows, terrified of invading such a personal space despite the foreignness time travel has wrought on once-familiar places. Henry rummages through the large dresser by the bed, and Michael casts his eyes downwards to prevent himself from observing the room before him. Michael remembers that his eyes were similarly downcast when helping a recovering Henry into this very bed, sick and near feverish from alcohol withdrawals. Henry had blurted all sorts of frantic admissions with Michael watching over him. Perhaps he thought Michael would absolve him of his sin , but all his nephew could remember were the pleading whispers for Michael to stay, to never leave him. His father had once begged the same.
The clothing pressed into Michael’s hands conjures an entirely new dilemma as his trembling fingers run over the slightly scratchy fabric of the white tank top and scuffed jean shorts. He can picture the violent sprays of crimson stark as blood against bone, soaking deep into the white material. The smell of iron lingered on his skin and in his matted hair for weeks afterwards. Henry must see the horrified look overtake his nephew’s face because his purposefully calm, grounding voice pulls Michael out of the dissociation threatening to drown his awareness.
“I think it’s time for you to get some new clothes while we’re out,” Henry promises, and Michael blinks once, twice, long and slow. He’s nodding his head in agreement automatically until Henry’s words register.
“Are you sure, though? I’d hate for you to waste your money on me.” Michael says, shame and embarrassment reddening his cheeks. Henry pierces Michael with a sullen, serious expression, ensuring neither can escape the other’s stare.
“Michael, I will never feel that buying or doing anything for you is a waste. You’re very precious to me, and God knows I did a horrible job of showing you that, so let me be there for you now.” Michael thinks back to Henry’s behaviour at the top of the stairs and nods his head as a coiling mass of anxiety grows deep within his chest.
“I’ll see if Aunt Vivian has finished in the washroom before I get dressed.” Michael chokes out, rushing from the room as bile scalds his throat. Henry follows Michael with surprising swiftness until they nearly run into Vivian, who is just opening the bathroom door. She shoots Henry a judgemental glare, but her expression softens when her eyes fall on Michael. It’s becoming increasingly overwhelming for Michael to be around Vivian since their incident in the kitchen. A foreign, probing heat is now ever constant at the edge of Michael's mind, like the flickering shadows of a powerful fire just out of sight. That heat suddenly turns scorching, and the smell of lavender is like suffocating smoke penetrating his mind and revealing his thoughts. Michael knows he can not dismiss the eclectic energy raising gooseflesh over his skin when he rushes into the bathroom. He’s suddenly so overwhelmed that he accidentally slams the door, grateful when neither Vivian nor Henry asks after him.
He refuses to take in the space before him, reminded of long, tired nights helping an intoxicated Henry to his feet after he wretched violently in the toilet. Michael can still feel the worried presence of Vivian, that wild, scorching fire, a deep shade of blue, somewhere beyond the door, and so he forces his mind blank. Startlingly vibrant silver eyes stare back at Michael when he accidentally meets his reflection in the vanity mirror, and he gawks at his youthful figure. Atop his head is a thick, ink-drawn mess of curls, and freckles are like dark, spotted stars against a sky of rouge-flushed cheeks. Even at fourteen, he’s the spitting image of his father, with that same angular face and jutting cheekbones, those lifeless, grey eyes stark against dark lashes William always despised for supposed femininity. Michael’s tall, lanky figure, legs awkwardly long from a recent growth spurt, mirror William, too, but the unruly, curly hair, the freckles, and the tan, rouge-bled skin are all reflections of his mother. Those reflections will fade from him with age until he can no longer look at himself in the mirror, and then they will be rotted and marred by death. Michael instinctually reaches under his shirt to press hard against his stomach, at once horrified and relieved that what should be rot-infected skin does not give way beneath haphazard stitching. A gentle knock on the door interrupts his exploration, and Sammy’s tired voice asks if Michael is on the other side.
Michael dresses quickly, repulsed by the amount of skin his tank top and shorts reveal, and opens the door. Sammy looks at him quizzically, already dressed, and then Charlie is also crowding into the bathroom to unbraid and brush her tangled hair. Charlie and Sammy are talking quietly in front of the mirror, and Michael feels he can detach like a fly on the wall from the domestic, gentle scene. Michael attempts to relegate himself to the background, staring at his pseudo-cousins in haunted awe, but then Charlie turns to look at him, wrenching him back into reality. Her expression is one of deep concern as she hands him a spare hairbrush, stepping aside as feeling spreads back into Michael’s limbs until he fusses over his hair in the mirror. Michael hisses when he yanks the brush through his knot of curls, the nerve endings in his scalp alight and sensitive from decades of numbness. Brushing with extreme caution does nothing to untangle or shape his hair, and so, after seemingly endless minutes of struggle, Charlie speaks.
“Do you want us to help brush your hair?” she asks hesitantly. Michael frowns defeatedly at the brush in his hand, his fingers trembling. He nods, but then he sees that Charlie’s hair is only half-braided, and he feels entirely too frustrated at forgetting how to do something as simple as brushing his hair.
“I really don’t want to be an inconvenience. God, I’m so sorry. What fourteen-year-old has trouble brushing their hair?” Michael says, embarrassed, self-loathing-fueled tears pricking at his eyes.
“Michael!” Charlie gasps, horrified.
“You will never be an inconvenience, and it’s okay; people need help sometimes.” Michael knows that Charlie and Sammy are waiting for permission to touch him, and it takes a few moments for Michael to nod his head so Charlie can begin. Charlie is gentle, running the bristles through the hair closer to his neck to avoid touching his scalp while Michael adjusts. When she finally does run the brush over his scalp, it feels so good that by the end, he’s crying silently, shining tears staining his cheeks. Michael only notices the smell of lavender until he’s nearly choking on it, that blue fire popping a bubble of pressure in his head.
Michael, what’s wrong? Aunt Vivian is standing in the doorway, intense and shocking with power, and Michael assumes that she must not know she forgot to speak to him out loud with the expectant look she throws all three of them. Michael does not sink boneless against the vanity in an exhausted panic like he assumed, so he takes his lack of reaction as some sort of progress. He notices a worry-stricken Uncle Henry standing meekly behind Vivian, observing her and Michael’s reactions.
“I’ll be alright,” Michael says, wiping the tears from his cheeks as he huffs in a breath to regain composure.
“It’s just a rough morning.” Michael directs his half-hearted explanation at all four of them, implying that his distress still lingers from last evening.
“Are you sure you're alright with going to the mall?” Aunt Vivian asks, somehow unknowingly switching between speaking to Michael out loud and in his mind. Charlie nods in agreement, but Michael cuts her off before the four of them can convince him to stay home.
“Going out might be good for me, so please don’t cancel plans over this.” Michael grimaces at the thought of the Emily’s rethinking their mall trip over his inability to control his grief. As a needed incentive, he thinks of the summer heat and gentle caress of the sun, suddenly glad for his exposed skin. A flurry of painful and joyous emotions falls over Vivian’s face before she relents, indulging Michael in what he knows could be a horrible decision.
Chapter 5: I see a facade: a stranger.
Summary:
Michael has a rough time at the mall.
Notes:
Trigger warnings for this chapter: slight claustrophobia, depictions of overstimulation, negative fixation on body image and physical appearance, brief mentions of death and blood, brief mentions of child abuse and self-loathing.
I'm alive! My final year at university started back in early September, and I've been more than overwhelmed with the course load. So, I have very little time to post or write new chapters. I'm not as happy with this chapter, so my pacing could be too slow, or I'm veering slightly off course in terms of plot. However, this is my first attempt at writing a longer, chaptered story, so it will probably be rougher in places. I do apologize, regardless. My writing is also undergoing a slight (or maybe not so slight, lol) transition in style right now, so subsequent chapters might change style-wise.
I may have to go on hiatus until my Christmas break, but if possible, I will write and post new chapters before then! I also wanted to mention that I have a Tumblr account if any of you want to chat about the fic or FNAF in general! I love making friends in fandom spaces, so I will link that below!
I always forget to mention this, but please feel welcome to comment on the fic! I love getting comments and even just kudos (of which I am so shocked and grateful that I have over 120)! Thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos or even just read in general! It makes me so happy!
Tumblr: @cactusinthedesert02.
Chapter Text
“I felt the urge to reassure him that I was like everybody else, just like everybody else.”
- Albert Camus, The Stranger.
“Well, we should head out now to beat the afternoon rush.” Vivian sighs, catching Michael’s grateful smile at the excited rush of footsteps that is Charlie and Sammy as Henry leads them down the stairs and to the foyer. Henry and Vivian twist around one another rather awkwardly in the small space before Charlie throws the front door open. Michael is just able to tie the laces on his rather comfy sneakers before Sammy pulls him excitedly out the door. The morning sun filters through the trees like an ethereal mist, and the promise of dry, stifling afternoon heat strangles a cold breeze from the air. Michael basks in warm sunlight, like sparkling gold on his skin, as Sammy and Charlie wait with him by the van in their driveway.
“Get in the back seat, you three,” Henry teases as he clicks his keys to unlock the doors, brimming with nervous and excited energy. Michael watches Vivian stiffen, a frown darkening her once-bright features as she gets into the passenger seat next to Henry, and Michael himself frowns at Charlie’s confused glances. At first, they drive away in awkward silence until Sammy strikes up a tentative conversation with Charlie and Michael that eventually turns animated and lively. They’re discussing arcade and home video games, and Michael only vaguely recalls that Sammy shares his love for racing and shoot-'em-ups. For once, Vivian and Henry are beaming, with all broad smiles and quiet laughter in the front seats, because Michael is grinning, talking wildly with his hands as he bounces with excited energy in his seat.
Time seems to stand still and rush past simultaneously; with the calming rumble of pop music crackling from the radio, Michael and Sammy laughing, breathless, at some stupid joke Charlie makes, the snow-capped, sharp peaks of the Wasatch mountains at once looming and breathtaking at the approach of a glowing cityscape. They end up in the heart of downtown Salt Lake City, people packed in their close-quartered cars like sardines in tin cans, an impressive, rectangular building with brand names stamped into the concrete on their left. A steel, glass and concrete tower reaches, impassive, into the sun-soaked sky, casting a dark, uniform shadow.
Henry has taken them to Crossroads Plaza, a vast, three-story shopping centre crammed with people bathed in a headache-inducing yellow light and the blaring neon from the seemingly endless store signs. They turn off the main street and enter the swallowing darkness of the parking garage, with only tiny overhead lights cut into the brutalist concrete and flashing headlights to illuminate their way. Michael feels the darkness and jagged concrete press in, and he grips the edges of his seat until his fingers go white, sagging all at once when Henry finally finds an empty parking space on the upper levels.
Charlie and Sammy have to coax Michael out of the car, and the added stench of lavender, that cold fire lashing out against his skull, has him fighting back overwhelmed tears as Henry leads them into sunlight and body-pressed streets. The fire retreats, but Michael has to weave his way through the crowd of frantic shoppers and stressed, suited office workers, his hand trembling in Charlie’s. Michael’s desperate for a cigarette, or the worrying of bubble gum between his teeth, or the rush and subsequent crash of caffeine; anything to distract him from the heat and indistinguishable yell of people. He worries about how his once rotting skin would have smelled in this heat, at how visible he is in just shorts and a tank top, but the absence of horrified stares and shrill screams further cements the reality of this vivid dream.
When they enter the mall, Michael still holds Charlie’s hand, a wall of cold air like water down his back after escaping the heat. The sound of rushing water just registers over the echo of upbeat 80s rock music and the excited murmur of voices, and Michael’s eyes are drawn to the diamond-shaped, blue and pink fountain, water leaping high into the air in front of a dizzying zigzag of escalators. Patches of sunlight stream down from the glass roof, and Michael’s shoes click against the checkered tile floor, an ugly combination of pink, blue and beige, as Charlie guides him.
Nothing about the interior has changed from when his family and the Emily’s visited every year just before Christmas in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Michael feels both sick and excited from nostalgia made manifest, and Henry’s sharp breath tells him he is just as shocked. They all need a moment at the colourful directory, eyes raking over the familiar and unfamiliar storefronts.
“Holy shit, there’s a Gap store.” Michael blurts and then grows immediately red with shame when neither Vivian nor Henry reprimands him for cursing.
“Didn’t know Gap polos were your style,” Charlie teases, squeezing his hand in a comforting gesture.
“I think I’m gonna change up my style. Who let me wear these bland oversized tank tops and jean shorts?” Michael jokes back, desperate to separate himself from the angry, broken teenage boy who killed his little brother. He thinks it’s morbid that Charlie, before she died, had gotten to see his immediate change in fashion after Evan’s death but that this Charlie has not. Polos of nearly every colour were worn under denim jackets and tucked into Levi jeans, a pair of striped runners on hand for when he’d inevitably go for a long jog after fights with his father. The thought of acid-washed jeans and new runners has Michael smiling warmly at the memories of the few stable months before Charlie’s death and then the one stable year living with Sammy and Aunt Vivian.
“Oh, you’re for sure letting me style at least one of your new outfits.” Charlie grins conspiratorially, and Michael barks out a tender laugh. Henry and Vivian smile warmly at them.
“Only if I get to style one too!” Sammy cuts in.
“Be careful, Mike. He’s got no idea what colours go with what,” Charlie jokes, laughing at the pouting look on her brother’s face.
“Hey! I’m pretty stylish, you know. Everyone says so at school.”
“Sure, for middle school boys. Besides, Michael’s the artist, and he’s taught me a few things. It’s all about colour theory.” Michael’s actually giggling at their exchange, but he still has a tight grip on Charlie’s hand as they practically run through the crowds of people toward the store with Henry and Vivian on their heels, begging for them to stick together and not get lost. Surprisingly, the store isn’t too crowded, and Michael is immediately drawn to the Levi jeans, running his fingers over the soft denim. He’s lost and unsure about what looks good on him with his awkward growth spurt, slim frame, and long legs.
Charlie’s already chatting excitedly with a retail worker, an older girl with permed hair so blond it’s nearly white, and a neon shock of blue eyeshadow framed by dark lashes and black eyeliner. She’s dressed in all Gap branded clothing: some unidentifiable yellow fabric under a collard, blue washed floral print shirt tied in the front, complimented by bright blue shorts. Michael thinks that everything must look good on her based on the confident but friendly way she carries herself in that outfit, and he’s shocked at the insecurity scalding up his throat like bitter acid at her approach.
“Don’t be nervous,” she soothes, a hand on her hip as she looks over Michael and then down at the clothes.
“I think darker jeans might compliment you best; that or acid-washed. What kinda shirt are ya going for?”
“Polos.” Michael stutters, embarrassed but greatly amused, when Charlie begins shoving numerous articles of clothing in his hands. She’s arguing playfully with Sammy over his choice of colour as the retail worker chuckles softly at them.
“You’ve sure got the fan club. Friends of yours?”
“Cousins.” Michael corrects automatically, feeling, for once, that he does not need to explain their lack of blood relation now that his father is no longer hovering over him.
“Well, I think your cousins agree with me that’d you’d look nice in polo’s with how many they’re gonna make you try on.” The retail worker laughs, a genuine smile on her face as Michael panics at her missing nametag.
“Sorry,” he starts, somewhat rigid, “I never caught your name.” The girl’s sea-blue eyes widen, and her hands fumble over her shirt in panic.
“Ah, hell. I forgot to put on my damn nametag. I’m Sarah, though,” She says, timid and red-faced when she offers her hand. Michael can not remember the last time he greeted someone with a handshake or talked to strangers in general, but he finds himself growing tolerant of everyday physical contact when he takes her hand.
“Michael,” he replies, watching in awe as Sarah sheds her short-lived, embarrassed timidity for that natural, wide smile confidence. Michael can not help but smile when Henry and Vivian approach, having observed the scene from the sidelines with wistful amusement.
“Are you going to let him try some of those on, pumpkin?” Henry teases, running his fingers through the loose hair in Charlie’s braids, and she goes bright scarlet at the endearment. Charlie doesn’t lash out or push Henry away in embarrassment like Michael would at that age but hides her face in his side, leaning into him. The interaction has Michael reeling at how terribly he treated everyone around him at her age in comparison. Michael has little time to ruminate because Sarah is laughing, guiding him to one of the comically rectangular fitting rooms with far too much clothing in his hands. It’s only after all of the Emily’s follow him to the fitting room that Michael realizes he must model every outfit, especially considering Sammy and Charlie picked everything out.
“You’ve got room six; holler if you need me,” Sarah says, glancing reassuringly over her shoulder as she wanders off.
Michael enters the cramped fitting and faces a full-length mirror as he locks the door. He tries desperately not to obsess over his reflection as he pulls together different outfits from the mish-mash pile of clothing Charlie and Sammy gathered. Once the first outfit is on, a rose pink polo with a dark wash, straight-leg jeans and an oversized, similarly shaded jean jacket, Michael can not help but fixate on himself in the mirror. The jeans somehow both fit and compliment his awkwardly tall and lean frame, and he is surprised that the polo brings out the flecks of colour in his grey-washed eyes, the pink fabric stark against his dark mullet of long curls. The oversized jean jacket makes him feel safe, and he finds himself instinctually hiding his hands in the large breast pockets like he once did for months after Evan’s death, as if hiding blood stains that refuse to wash out. Michael rushes out of the suddenly constricting fitting room, unprepared for the looks of awe on everyone’s faces.
“I knew pink would look good on you!” Charlie all but squeals.
“She’s right, Mike. You look yourself now. I haven’t seen you this happy in so long, son.” Henry’s choking on tears, and Michael, panicked, flushes an even deeper red in embarrassment.
“Are you sure you both don’t mind paying for all of this? I’m extremely grateful, of course, and I’d love a new set of clothes, but it’s expensive.” Michael reasons, avoiding eye contact when he presses his chin against his chest, worrying his hands.
“Of course, we don’t mind, Mike. You’re part of our family, you know?” Michael swallows down a sob and nearly chokes on it because Aunt Vivian has said this before. She made it a habit to remind Michael that he was part of her ever-shrinking family when it was just her, Sammy and him on their tranquil ranch in the middle of the iron-drenched Arizona desert, far from his stagnant hometown haunted by painful memories turned mythical legend. He aches for what was lost as Charlie and Uncle Henry nod their heads in agreement, and he thinks they would hate him for abandoning Sammy and Vivian, beckoned by the web of sugary sweet lies spun by his father.
“We are family,” Michael agrees, vowing to save the Emily’s from ruin even if it means abandoning them once more in death. He doesn’t try arguing about them paying for his clothes after that, although he feels a twinge of guilt every time he models a new outfit, awed when his eyes inevitably wander over to the mirror. Charlie and Sammy compliment every outfit, and Sarah checks in on them, curiosity written plainly on her face. By the end, Michael has more clothes than he knows what to do with, far more than William would have ever allowed, but the relaxed, content energy between everyone keeps him quiet.
“I’ll ring ya up.” Sarah insists, leading them over to the front counter. Henry begins handing her the messy pile of clothing, which she neatly folds and places in a giant bag.
“Where are you all from?” Sarah inquires.
“Hurricane Utah,” Henry replies, and Michael pales when awed recognition dawns over Sarah’s face.
“Ah hell, are you Mr. Emily? Fredbear’s is kinda a state legend with those animatronics and all.” Henry stiffens, but Charlie answers for him, brimming with excitement.
“Yeah, my dad and Uncle Will made those animatronics!” Michael cringes when Charlie calls William “Uncle Will,” rage boiling his blood.
“Yup, that’s me, Mr. Emily, co-founder of Fredbear Family’s Diner,” Henry says it so awkwardly that Michael cannot help when a near-hysterical bubbling of laughter bursts past his clenched teeth. Sarah has the most bewildered look on her face.
“Damn, I’m so sorry. You all must hate getting asked about it endlessly in public.” Sarah squeaks out, waving her hands apologetically as Henry pays for Michael’s clothes, the worry of money all but forgotten.
“No, no! It’s perfectly ok to be curious. Mr. Afton is more so the face of the business; I’m not good with people. Will would talk your ear off about our animatronics if you asked.” It’s a good lie, spun with threads of truth. William was the face of the company before Henry kicked him out after too many disagreements turned sour, but Henry was just as charismatic with customers and employees as William. The difference is that Henry’s warm, welcoming and fatherly demeanour is genuine.
“Uh, thanks, Mr. Emily - for the reassurance.” She stops suddenly, widening eyes trained toward Michael, and he would find the whole situation rather hilarious if he didn’t know what she was going to say.
“Then - you’re Michael Afton.” It’s weird to hear his name spoken with curious awe instead of disgust or pity, but he loathes his connection to the name Afton regardless.
“The one and only,” Michael teases, desperate to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Forgive me,” Vivian says, stepping in front of Michael, her body a shield from the prying eyes of ignorant spectators, “but we’re in a rush. It was wonderful meeting you, Sarah.” Vivian somehow sounds genuinely apologetic as she ushers everyone out of the store. Charlie and Sammy appear genuinely confused, and Henry mouths a silent “thank you” over their shoulders. While Vivian smiles rather tightly in response, she does not outright dismiss Henry. Michael presses his head to his chest, a smile hidden in his tank top.
Chapter 6: Do you remember when I said I needed you, Michael?
Notes:
Trigger Warnings for this chapter: Past child abuse, references to death/violence, flashbacks, references to past suicide, past alcohol abuse, co-dependency/unhealthy relationships, and overstimulation.
Hey all! I'm so sorry it has been over two months since I last posted. I got extremely sick for a good month after I posted chapter five, and then I had exams. Now I'm sick again over the holidays, so I've mostly been sleeping and doing school work for the past few months. I'm still so excited about this fic and want to continue working on it, but there might be long absences between uploads as I deal with chronic illness stuff.
I also checked on my fic and was so happy to see I have 164 Kudos!! I am truly so thankful for everyone who reads my fic and leaves a Kudo, comment or even bookmarks! The comments and kudos truly keep me motivated to update this fic when my health is often not the greatest.
I hope to update a the next chapter a lot sooner compared to this one, as I have some free time right now. Please enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Do our inner thoughts ever show outwardly? There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke coming through the chimney, and go along their way.”
- The Complete Letters of Vincent van Gogh
The lights on the ceiling blind Michael, and its buzzing lines form bright rectangles that cast a dull yellow glow as thick as a film of nicotine residue. His eyes wander over the towering palm trees and hanging vines bleeding like bruised veins down the second—and third-story balconies. The distressed voices of Charlie and Sammy fade to a murmur. Beyond the boxed-off greenery and the salt and pepper-coloured tiled floor, Michael's eye catches a startling pop of bright blue and red peeking out of the muddled colours in an octagonal stand. The stand contains a mish-mash of almost stereotypical 80's games and puzzles. Michael startles when he realizes the vibrant colour is the paint on a pile of Rubik's cubes.
A vivid, painful memory eats through him like acid: of a wide, starry-eyed Evan at this very mall, staring, transfixed, at those same Rubik's cubes. Michael remembers that he had been itching with angry adrenaline, overwhelmed by the loud voices and bright lights, ready to take out his rage on Evan in front of everyone near the stand. William always had a keen, obsessive watch over them in public, so he wrenched Michael by the arm, cold fingers pressing ugly bruises into his skin as he scolded his eldest child. Michael knows that no detail, however minute, ever got past his father. So, a few weeks before Evan's birthday later that year, Michael peaked past the shining, confetti-sprinkled tissue paper hiding the same Rubik's cube in one of his little brother's gifts. Michael killed Evan before he could even open it.
A warm, grounding hand pulls Michael from the crushing depths of his memories, and he finds himself crying silently with Henry crouched in front of him, shielding him from strangers. Henry pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the tears from his nephew's cheeks in a gesture so kind and gentle that Michael feels he doesn't deserve it. Sammy, Charlie, and Vivian are just behind Henry, watching with pained expressions. Vivian looks as if she is about to snap and pull Henry away from him, so Michael pulls his Uncle into a desperate hug, fearful.
"What's wrong, son?" Henry soothes. Something bitter snakes up Michael's throat, an anger so reminiscent of his childhood that he chokes it down in blind panic.
"I haven't gotten Evan a gift." He blurts, swallowing down spiteful remarks he cannot bear the thought of.
A pained expression falls like a shadow over Henry's face, and Michael wonders if he remembers that day just as vividly, if the guilt eats away at him like the maggots in his once-rotting skin. Michael groans in frustration as more tears sting his eyes because he's unsure of how to survive William if he's not rendered an emotionless automaton.
"Oh, Mikey. It's going to be okay. I won't let anything happen to either of you," Henry promises, pulling Michael into a tighter, more desperate hug. Michael is reminded of a white-haired Henry pulling him into one of the few hugs he allowed with similar desperation. Then, Michael hugged himself as William screamed above the roaring flames in that tiny office. With the memory of smoke on his tongue, he sincerely doubts Henry will prevent catastrophe when he was once eager to create it.
"I know you'll try." Michael sighs, breaking from the hug before neither can let go of the other. The look of raw distress contorting Henry's face when they break away does not escape Michael, despite the older man's uncanny effort to divert to a warm, calm demeanor, smile and all. Words die in Michael's throat as Charlie and Sammy crash into him and pull him into a half-hug. Henry falls further into faux contentment, chuckling over his kids.
"We'll help you find the perfect gift!" Charlie all but yells, her smile so wide it reddens her cheeks.
"You already have the perfect idea, huh, Mike?" Sammy teases.
"Yeah, the kid's into Rubik's Cubes," Mike says shyly, still eyeing Henry with trepidation. Charlie's face seems to twitch with a look of worried realization, but then she's smiling, bright and warm like her father, as she and Sammy guide him to the stand. An older man with wire-rimmed glasses and a shock of white hair works the stand, and his eyes spark with mirth at their approach.
"Well, isn't this the merriest trio I've seen all afternoon. How can I help you kids?" Michael cannot help but blush at the positive attention, embarrassment veiling a deep ache in his chest. The man leans against the counter, a smile directed behind them at who Michael knows to be Vivian with that creeping, cold haze of lavender rising the hairs on his skin.
"We need one of the Rubik's Cubes!" Charlie says, putting on her polite, childlike smile that endears all the adults around her. Michael stands there rather awkwardly in comparison, eyeing the Rubik's Cubes in intense panic over which one is most aesthetically pleasing.
"Must be for someone important, huh, son." The elder man ponders, humming.
"Yeah, my, uh, little brother." Michael chokes out. The guilt scalds like acid in his stomach, and he half expects disgust to lash out from the once smiling, now contorted faces. The man's smile simply brightens, and he wanders over to a haphazard stack of boxes and pulls out an untouched, packaged Rubik's Cube.
"The ones on display can get pretty scuffed." Michael watches the man carefully place it into a shopping bag as Vivian pays for it, that strange burst of a firework, like heat, fizzing in his chest.
"This means more than you know," Michael says, a smile just shy of reaching his eyes as he clutches the bag against his chest.
"He's going to love it, kid." The older man assures.
"You know he's going to love it, right Mike?" Charlie asks once they are a little ways from the stand. She stops to reach for his hand, her worried eyes searching for his own. Michael cannot bring himself to say anything. He can only squeeze her hand in reassurance, desperate for Uncle Henry. He assumes the four of them are waiting for Henry to return, with how Aunt Vivian directs them to sit on an empty bench, a tall palm tree cutting sharp shadows across the hazy sunlight above them. Michael is comforted by the smell of wet soil in the large planter behind them, reminded of summer camping outdoors rather than the nicotine-choked confines of the mall. The memories remind him of Henry, whose absence has Michael suspicious and on edge.
"He's only gone to get you something," Vivian reassures, slightly exasperated. Then, a chill like cold fire down his spine has him shivering violently.
"Dude, you okay?" Sammy asks, a hand over Michael's back.
"Woah! You're freezing!" He says, eyes wide as he pulls his hand away. Michael is too shocked at the prospect that someone else can feel what should be a nonexistent cold to come up with a good excuse. Thankfully, Sammy grows distracted when he sees Henry wave at them excitedly from across the mall. They meet Henry halfway, who is giddy and flushed with anticipation at the bags he presents to Michael and the twins in his hand. Vivian hides a smile behind an expression of tired exasperation, that cold fire burning up Michael's skin as he peeks inside the bag. Inside are a pair of Adidas running shoes quite similar to the pair he'd saved up for in the mid-eighties; they are white with blue stripes down the side and have soles made for hours of hard running.
He can feel a cold, spring wind whip the sweat off his rouge-blotched face and how sorrowful anger would settle deep into his limbs as a burning ache each time his feet slam against the pavement. He's missed the strength of his body fine-tuned by years of running and the buzzing clarity fueled by adrenaline rather than marred by the highs of caffeine and nicotine. Michael remembers reminiscing with Henry about how he used to run for hours on end to clear his head after a particularly scathing argument with William. They'd sit in Henry's small kitchen that stank of alcohol, talking about their lives spent apart as Henry brewed Michael too much coffee, not that it mattered as a living corpse. Henry listened intently, holding onto every word as if to commit it to memory, the dark wells of loneliness that once hollowed his eyes filled every time they were drawn to the kitchen and one another. Michael thinks of all this as he stares down at the shoes in their box, speechless at the meaning of such a gift and how Henry has remembered so much about him.
"I-" Michael begins, overwhelmed.
"I know, son. I know." Henry soothes. There are deep lines of guilt drawn over both Henry and Vivian's faces, and Charlie looks at the three of them in a once swirling confusion pulled so taught it's about to snap in a deafening realization. When her eyes meet his, all Michael can see are the pinprick circles of light behind the ever-smiling mask of the puppet, a gaze that once seemed to pierce through him in condemnation, now one of understanding. Michael blinks in disbelief, and the image fades, replaced with a young, concerned Charlie.
"Sorry," Michael says, surprised when his fingers come away dry from rubbing over his cheeks.
"Nothing to be sorry for," Charlie says, a smile ghosting over her face as she reaches for Michael and Sammy's hands.
"I can tell you want to get out of here," Charlie observes, directing her plea toward her parents.
"I think we all do," Michael says, near sick with the stench of cigarette smoke.
'We'll go somewhere for lunch and then get you kids home." Henry promises that Charlie is already pulling them toward the exit and into the hot, breathable air.
Henry drives them to a diner just outside the chaos of downtown Salt Lake City. The blue and red neon of the outside sign is so bright that it bleeds through already-blinding sunlight. Michael leaves the car with a sinking feeling that the inside will be just as unbearable. He reaches for Charlie's hand as an older couple holds open the doors for them with polite smiles, nearly slamming into them as he takes in the interior. The black and white checkered floors, the stripped booths, the neat row of metallic bar stools lined up against a rectangular strip of counter, and the scattered, neon lights: everything reminds Michael of Fredbear's. Michael has half a mind to curse Henry out for bringing them to a diner of all places as Charlie guides him through the rather cramped space to order. He feels like he could float like some incorporeal spirit from his body, and perhaps Charlie's hand keeps him tethered. His eyes flicker over the menu, but everything reads as gibberish, and Michael figures he must look an awful mess if Aunt Vivian has to pull him into one of the booths and force his head between his arms. His mind blanks at the garbled mess of noise from the speakers, but then awareness seeps into his bones like frostbite. Michael realizes that the cold is the condensation on a can of Coke pressed into the back of his neck when he attempts to raise his head.
"What do you need right now, Michael?" Vivian asks, and he can feel the tremor in her fingers as she runs them through his curls. Michael groans, half out of pain and half out of frustration, and murmurs his reply onto the table.
"I probably need to eat something." He lifts his head on a deep exhale, rubbing his eyes with his hands in some desperate hope that he will be able to make sense of his sight again.
"Let's try water first," Vivian suggests, and Michael is half hoping for her to hand him the now absent Coke can instead of a cold glass of water. He drinks like a man dying of thirst, and Vivian warns him to slow himself before he chokes. Then, Henry settles into the seat across from them, a tall glass with a red and white striped straw sticking out the top in his hand.
"Do you think you can handle a fruit smoothie?" Henry asks, failing to hide his concern with a warm smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Michael cannot afford to process the thought of food, so he all but lunges for the smoothie. He is, however, surprised that he can not only stomach the smoothie but enjoys the cold, tart sweetness that seems to soothe his aching throat. Henry and Vivian watch him in awed triumph. Michael nearly chokes at the guilt of just now noticing Charlie and Sammy's absence.
"Where are Charlie and Sammy?" Michael panics, vision spotting when he shoots up in his seat to see beyond the tall booths. Then, that all-too-familiar smell of lavender overwhelms his senses, and what he's beginning to more clearly visualize as a panicked mass of ice-cold fire burns him raw, exposing his thoughts. He collapses against Vivian, an otherworldly glow that manifests as a lashing of deep, somber blue flames like a halo around her body. Aunt Vivian's expression transforms from one of worry to disbelief, and, for a brief moment, something orange-red overtakes the blue. Michael shivers, losing his sudden control over the hot, vibrant energy raising the hair on his skin when Henry crouches next to him from outside the booth.
"They're eating in the booth behind us, but Mike, we need to get you home," Henry says, worry etching deep, aged lines into his face that remind Michael too much of the man he persuaded to burn their shared pizzeria with both of them still inside. So, he cannot help but flinch when Henry places a gentle hand over his forehead, pressing further into Vivian as it sears against his skin.
"Henry," Vivian warns. The man retracts his hand as if burnt, his eyes red and glassy.
"No! Henry, I'm sorry." Michael blurts, reaching for his Uncle in desperation. He drops from the booth and into Henry's arms, an ice-cold spark like the hands of a corpse over his skin, as if pulling him back. A heat-like fire bursts through the cold lethargy in his limbs, and a wave of sudden anger forces a command past clenched lips.
" Tell me you won't ever leave again." Michael compels, voice like a crack of thunder.
"I won't leave you, Mike. I need you; you're the only thing holding me together." Henry says, a horrified expression falling over his face once the words leave his mouth. Somehow, Michael knows he forced that admission from Henry, but the guilt that would usually scald up his throat like stomach acid is absent. He's wanted someone to need him so horribly, like when Father would sob in his arms and beg him to stay, cries echoing in a house haunted by its growing emptiness. Michael knows he cannot fix Father or Uncle Henry, but he can hold them together like a sticky glue that refuses to unbind. He can be needed. A now familiar smell of lavender makes him choke, static buzzing in his ears.
Michael, listen to me. It's not your responsibility to hold people together. You should be loved, not needed.
Henry does love me.
Yes, but you're dependent on one another. I - I can't say our relationship is any healthier, but I do know that you're both going to hurt each other. Henry's already hurt you, Mike.
"I'll explain everything later," Vivian soothes, gently touching Henry's arm. The confused, haunted shadow over his face falls away. Michael slumps in Henry's arms, exhausted as the scorching, electric energy fades from his limbs.
"We need to get Michael home. Take him to the car; I'll handle everything else." A look of gentle understanding passes between them, which Michael has not witnessed since Charlie's death. He feels the foreign, nostalgic comfort of childhood as Henry helps him to his feet, bearing his weight as they step into the dry heat of summer in Salt Lake City. Charlie rushes out after them, eyes red as she forces her father to let her help Michael into the back seat. Michael fights the lulling pull of sleep when Charlie sits next to him, his head pressed against her shoulder, her hand in his. He thinks he can hear humming, a voice like Father's, a murmur so soft and mournful he can hardly make out the words.
"In my solitude
You haunt me
With reveries
Of days gone by
In my solitude
You taunt me
With memories
That never die
I sit in my chair
I'm filled with despair
There's no one could be so sad
With gloom everywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that I'll soon go mad."
The words soon fade into the darkness of sleep.
Notes:
The song at the end is Solitude sung by Billie Holiday.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 7: “That was a very long time ago, Father.” (Flashback Chapter)
Notes:
I'm so sorry it has been a very long time since I last updated this fic! My chronic health issues got worse and it was a lot on top of university. I just finished my spring course a few days ago and my FNAF fixation is back after the release of The Secret of the Mimic, so I hope to update this fic more this summer! Thank you all so much for over 220 kudos and all of the comments!
This chapter is pretty short because it takes place in the past, where Henry and Michael reunite after Henry and William have a falling out. This fic very much deviates from the possible canon interpretation of Mike and Henry's relationship, so I have them reunite long before Pizza Sim. I hope you all like it regardless!
Trigger warnings for this chapter: Codependent/unhealthy relationships, slight gore, referenced alcohol abuse, referenced physical and psychological abuse and PTSD flashbacks of physical and psychological abuse, referenced confinement.
Chapter Text
“It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
The sky is a black shroud, and white flashes of lightning reach out like skeletal fingers as rain cries mournful tears into the mud-soaked ground. Michael stands before an empty plot of land, a black umbrella shielding his rotted, gauze-wrapped body from the rain, his hollow, pin-prick eyes mournful and downcast. The for sale sign stuck deep in the mud has a red sold sticker plastered mockingly over the realtor’s smiling face, though the obscured identity is no secret to Michael, nor are the future plans for this current mud pile. With endless time after decades of isolated undeath, Michael lets nothing concerning Freddy’s slip past his notice. Watchful eyes, chattering rats, deceitful snakes; all of them give Michael pieces of a larger puzzle that he then painstakingly puts together. So he waits in the rain for the squelching of tires through wet gravel and mud, for the nervous, almost angry slam of a car door and the heavy footsteps of steel-toed work boots. Michael knows who is behind him; he’s let slip hints of his intrusive prodding as a lure despite being entirely unsure of its effectiveness. The disbelieving presence steps close, and Michael turns his body to face it, a choked breath sending a shiver through him when he goes to speak.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, Henry,” Michael says, voice as forewarning as the distant, rumbling thunder. Henry steps impossibly closer, and Michael’s stony facade cracks, flinching when the man goes to cradle his face. He has this wild, desperate look in his eyes, like a flame sparking after decades of being stifled, and a sharp bitterness replaces his once sugary-sweet exterior. Henry is old now, his hair and unkempt beard a shock of white, wrinkles like etched lines of charcoal, eyes lifeless and made hollow by dark circles, but hope bleeds colour into his skin at being reunited with Michael.
“Oh, Michael - it really is you. I thought you were dead, son.” Henry’s voice cracks on an awed sob, and Michael both shocks and grieves him further when he finally lifts his head and removes his mummy-wrapped arms from beneath his long raincoat.
“Michael, this is -” Henry begins, bewilderment catching his breath. Then, the flame in his hard eyes bursts, and he’s growling: “What did he do to you?” Michael laughs, loud and bitter, because he knows to whom Henry is referring.
“I think we’re overdue for a long chat,” Michael says, stretching out his hands open-palmed in a friendly invitation.
“I have so many questions, Mike. I’m shocked that you even found out about all of this.” Henry murmurs, gesturing disbelievingly to the empty lot.
“I probably know too much.” Michael grimaces, tilting his umbrella so it falls over their faces like a black veil, shielding them from the rain. A silence falls between them that wounds tight with tension; the sharp, stuttering intakes of breath a sign that Henry is unsure how to resume conversation. Michael avoids his gaze, and the fingers fluttering around his hand are like nervous moths, unsure of if the blinding light will burn. Then, Henry mumbles something far too fast and quiet for Michael to hear, and so the older man chokes down what sounds like a sob and tries again.
“Will you come home with me, son?” Henry asks, gentle so as not to scare off a frightened animal. Michael finally meets his gaze in widened surprise, and the understanding of that aching solitude reflects back. So, Henry coaxes him to his car wordlessly, a sad but warm smile on his face, something triumphant sparking in his eyes when Michael lowers his umbrella and snaps it shut. Both of them are silent until they reach Henry’s house, and the stench of whiskey hits Michael like an unexpected slap to the face as he steps inside. The foyer is dim from the dark storm clouds and half closed blinds, and, at first, Michael divests himself only of his muddy rain boots. It takes a few moments of a seemingly unending, silent stillness for Michael to remove his raincoat, a crewneck sweater over long, dark sleeves failing to hide bone white gauze. Mercifully, Henry says nothing.
Michael lowers his eyes before he can process the absence of once pristine, family picture frames in abundance over now faded wallpaper. Henry leads them to his kitchen before Michael can take in more of the foyer and living room, surprised to find everything almost obsessively clean. That tacky wallpaper, in rows of bunched green and reddish fruit, strains Michael’s eyes, but conjures memories of giddy pancake breakfasts with a smiling Aunt Vivian and Uncle Henry. He coughs to cover a sob at the thought that only Sammy has lived to greying hair and wrinkles out of the five children once seated at this same kitchen table. Michael settles into the seat he favoured as a teen, unnerved at the idea of taking someone else’s place. The room settles into an awkward silence, but Michael can tell Henry is curious about his changed appearance with the way he studies him.
“I’m not sure if you’ll believe what happened to me. I hardly believe it, even now.” Michael says, fighting the urge to laugh or bite out some sarcastic quip at how everything has become so surreal it nears the absurd.
“Were you hurt?” Henry tries, cautious.
“Technically,” Michael laughs. He removes his darkened glasses and face mask, unsurprised at the sharp gasp Henry fails to stifle. His eyes glow like twin flames of pure white in the dimness, nose concave and jutting bone, tight stitching holding together the deep gashes in his hollow cheeks, skin purple and rotted. He cannot help the smile pulling at his cut lips.
“Mike - I don’t - how are you alive?”
“I’m not, really. Good old dad got me killed and now I’m a literal dead man walking. Apparently, William is a deranged enough son of a bitch that he figured out how to bring the dead back to life. However, his plan only half worked.” Henry looks at Michael with such wide eyed horror that he falters.
“I’m sorry, Henry. I find all of this way too absurd to take seriously, but it’s hard hearing it for the first time.” Michael fidgets with his hands, tempted to pull out the stitching in his cheeks but refraining at how terrified that may leave Henry.
“William did this?” Henry darkens, anger like a wild flame in his eyes.
“He sent me to find Elizabeth at Circus Baby’s Rentals. It was the last thing he begged of me when I finally built up the courage to leave him. I only realized years later that he sent me to die, or, well, die and come back. It’s got something to do with what he called remnant, but hell if I know what it is or does.”
“God, I’m so sorry Michael. I know enough to be able to piece together what happened to you, and I certainly don’t want you to relieve such a horrific experience by explaining it in detail.” Michael smiles faintly at the sentiment, and then the implications of what Henry’s just revealed has him gaping in shock.
“You know about remnant?”
“I know there are souls stuck inside of the animatronics. Children’s souls.” Henry begins, watching Michael intently for signs of discomfort.
“Yeah, Elizabeth was there - stuck inside Baby. She didn’t remember me, or herself. You can probably guess what happened if you know how violent the animatronics can be with adults.” Henry moves his hand across the table to reach for Michael; a comforting gesture gone unfulfilled as Michael flinches away from potential contact. Henry winces.
“Don’t force yourself, son.” Michael sighs, bracing himself for the harsh rejection sure to follow when he goes to mention the unspoken, figurative elephant in the room.
“Henry, those children who went missing, do you know who -”
“I already know it was William.” Henry confirms, voice soothing and calm despite the anger and disgust he should feel.
“I’m sorry, Henry. For all of it. Fuck, I shouldn’t be here.” Michael panics, standing up in his seat as he eyes the front door in desperation. He’s nearly out of the kitchen before Henry steps in front of him, hands hovering over his gauze wrapped arms to stall him. Henry’s eyes are wild and tear soaked, body shaking from intense panic as his breathing quickens.
“I don’t give a damn that William’s your father. I love you so much, son. Please don’t leave now that I’ve finally gotten you back.” Henry breaks down in front of him; heaving sobs rattling his body as his hands hug his sides, eyes fixed intently on Michael in case he tries to flee. Michael instinctually lays a hand on Henry’s shoulder, moving downward to rub soothing circles into his back as he cries, reminded of how he comforted William through emotion intense mood swings. The sight of Henry causes a dam of guilt to burst in Michael’s chest, and he backs away like a frightened child, the ghost of his father hanging over the room. Henry reaches for him, and Michael chokes out words despite the figurative violent rush of water drowning his lungs.
“I’ll stay.” Michael says, hands trembling at the memory of cold, grey eyes pinning him like a writhing bug to the living room wall in paranoid accusation. Henry startles, opening his mouth to speak, but Michael cuts him off so he doesn’t have to remember the terrible moment of silence before angry screaming.
“I will need to move my things, maybe end my tenancy.” Michael considers, hands itching to tear the stitching holding his cheeks together as he moves further away from Henry to pace around his living room. Henry’s hopeful awe shifts, for a moment, to discomfort, but then that fire bursts in his eyes, desperate and all consuming.
“Just bring what you need for a few weeks, first. Then we’ll work on moving everything over and getting you out of your apartment.” Henry’s voice attempts to sooth, like the fire in his eyes has settled as a sludge of lava in Michael’s heart, pumping sluggishly through his veins. Michael tries to smile as Henry leads them under receding storm clouds back out to his car, but he’s burning up from the inside. They settle into their seats, and the silence is a violent ringing in Michael’s ears. He mustn't look away from the cold, colourless eyes boring into his own. He cannot scream. He cannot leave.
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